He shined the ground at his feet, elevated the torch with infinite precaution, throwing a fan-shaped light over the stretch of sink he had suspected and feared. It flanked the flat, wet path of rock on either side. Here Death spread its slimy trap at his very feet.
Then, as he stood taking his bearings with burning torch, far ahead in the darkness a light flashed, went out, flashed twice more, and was extinguished.
Quintana!
Smith's wits were working like lightning, but instinct guided him before his brain took command. He levelled his torch and repeated the three signal flashes. Then, in darkness, he came to swift conclusion.
There were no other signals from the unknown. The stony bottom of the rivulet was his only aid.
In his right hand the torch hung almost touching the water. At times he ventured sufficient pressure for a feeble glimmer, then again trusted to his sense of contact.
For three hundred yards, counting his strides, he continued on. Then, in total darkness, he pocketed the torch, slid a cartridge into the breech of is rifle, slung the weapon, pulled out a handkerchief, and tied it across his face under the eyes.
Now, he drew the torch from his pocket, levelled it, sent three quick flashes, out into the darkness.
Instantly, close ahead, three blinding flashes broke out.
For Hal Smith it had all become a question of seconds.